


Ramsay hates you and you like it

by clawmachines



Category: Hell's Kitchen (US TV) RPF
Genre: Celebrity Crush, Dom/sub Undertones, Humor, Other, POV Second Person, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Lust, Verbal Humiliation, i fucking hate myself, your gender is unspecified
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:02:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28625391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clawmachines/pseuds/clawmachines
Summary: Rated M for language and suggestive themesGordon Ramsay x YOU... yes, you. At least, that's what you want. But he can't stand your guts. OR CAN HE? No, really, I'm not sure; I'm making this up as I go.
Relationships: Gordon Ramsay/Reader, Gordon Ramsay/You
Comments: 14
Kudos: 18





	1. Day One, in which you later think, wasn't he supposed to taste-test something?

Twelve minutes.

It had been twelve. Minutes. Since you had walked onto the set of Hell's Kitchen.

You had already had to excuse yourself.

Just a quick trip to the bathroom, splash some water on your too-hot face, stare at yourself in the mirror in disgust. What kind of twisted... You couldn't believe you had gone so far to get a chance to be in the same room as Chef Gordon Ramsay. You couldn't believe it even worked out. But he was out there as everyone showed up, his face hard, eyes scanning. You could see him through the crack of the bathroom door. There were twenty people to show on the first day, right? Looks like more than half are here. You left the bathroom and, as calmly as possible, took your place in the line-up.

Luckily, everyone here was early, so Gordon – Chef Ramsay, you reminded yourself – hadn't yet reached his boiling point. You did notice him check his watch, though. More people were filing in. You had heard a rumor that the red and blue teams wouldn't be divided by gender this season, which was fairly exciting since you had no idea who you were to cook with. You wondered if anyone else was motivated by the celebrity's presence, or if they had become such amazing chefs just because they loved it. At that thought, you felt a pang of shame. You better get your story straight if you don't want to make a damn fool out of yourself. You couldn't let anyone know that you have watched and re-watched all of Gord-- Chef Ramsay's-- shows, that you've been taking lesson after lesson and practicing every day, all while fantasizing about getting to be in the Hell's Kitchen competition. And now... it had actually happened! But did you even have the ability to stand his demeaning insults? Without getting hot under the collar, that is.  
No, no one could know. You wouldn't dare to even write it in a journal. So instead, you'd just, um... pretend you had no idea Hell's Kitchen existed. Yes, your friend tried your cooking... and told you about the show... and you decided, Oh, what the heck, I'll give it a shot! Now, stick to that.

You realized the person next to you was trying to get your attention.

“Sorry?” you replied, glancing around, wondering how long the other contestant had been poking at your arm. She raised her eyebrows and discreetly pointed forward to direct you.

“Your name.” It was Ramsay. He was staring directly at you, looking impatient.

“Y/n,” you said meekly.

“Do you think this is funny?” Ramsay asked suddenly.

“No! No, I don't,” you replied, holding your hands up. Your awkward grimace must have been taken as a smirk. Great start, great start.

“You think it's funny to waste my and everyone else's time as you try to remember what your own fucking name is?”

“No, it's not funny,” you said more firmly, and you clenched your fists, trying to get a grip.

“You're fucking right it isn't funny. First fucking day.” He shook his head and scoffed. “You know, usually, I ask your name, I say pleasure to meet you, maybe ask how long you've been cooking, so on and so forth, but you obviously need time to think through everything, don't you? So sit tight and I'll come back to you, yeah?” He nodded as if he were being encouraging, but his eyes were full of spite. “That alright with you?”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Good. Okay, and you?” He was asking the person who had prodded you.

“My name is Trisha, Chef,” she responded. They went on talking but you were focusing on the ground, kicking yourself mentally for sounding so stupid. On the other hand... you couldn't help but think of him speaking to you that way in a different environment. You pursed your lips to conceal a smirk, fearful (but curious) of what he would say if he saw. When he finished speaking with everyone else, all eyes were on you.

“Y/n, how long have you been cooking?” He actually sounded conversational.

“I've been cooking since 2005, Chef,” you replied, trying to look respectable.

“Wow, right when Hell's Kitchen was starting up,” he said. “Did I influence you?” You tensed up. It's okay, he's joking. Why did he have to sound so sexy about it?

“N-no,” you lied, your stammer stomping down the laugh that had almost escaped your throat. “I actually didn't know about the show until my friend mentioned it.”

“So we have your friend to thank for sending you here?”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Well, let's hope you don't disappoint your friend as much as you've already disappointed me.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Trisha wince. A few other contestants shifted uncomfortably, and you hoped that you didn't just hear a chuckle from one of them.

“Yes, Chef,” you repeated, not really sure what else to say. His stare bored into you for a few moments longer, and you held his gaze, daring him to further contribute to your spank bank. You stifled yet Another laugh at the thought of anyone reading your mind just now, and, thankfully, Ramsay had turned away before your twitching lip could betray you.

Before you knew it, you were all divided into teams and sent to the dorms to unpack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it. Bless you. From chapter 2 and on, I'll be writing shorter interactions, not a full-fledged story.


	2. Day Four, in which your steak is stone-cold

Your team is going to lose dinner service, and you're likely to be the root cause. Chef Ramsay had sent back more than half of your steaks. They were cooked fine, just as the patrons had ordered, but apparently they all were “STONE-FUCKING-COLD!” You had no idea how – you just took them off the pan and put them on the plate, how could they be cold? After the first send-back, you had consistently been testing them yourself before bringing them up, and they seemed perfectly fine! You wondered, is he lying for the drama? Would he notice if you brought it back without heating it at all?

“Y/n, I want that steak heated, where is it?” Ramsay shouted across the kitchen, his hands on his hips.

“Right here, Chef!” You scurried up with your plate, having decided not to risk a lie. Besides, the editors would go apeshit pointing it out when the show aired. Now this steak – this one was HOT. When you tested it, you had nearly burnt the back of your hand.

“Perfect. Finally,” he muttered after touching the meat. “Service.”

Jeez, how gnarly were this guy's hands to think that was a normal temperature? Are they scarred over or something? You caught a glimpse of his hands as he rested them on the table, then made your way back to the meat station. They did seem pretty rough. You wondered how rough...  
When the next order was called, you got to work seasoning the meat, rubbing in the spices across its length, the tender flesh spreading beneath your fingertips... Yikes, what? This is a damn cow. Stop it. Weirdo. You put the meat in the pan and called out the time you needed for garnish. It really smelled delicious. Maybe you should fondle your meat more often.  
The steak was finished, perfectly rare as the customer had ordered, and you had also popped it in the broiler for just a moment so it was searing hot to the touch, just the way Ramsay expected. You brought it up to him at the same time as the garnish. Yay!  
Ramsay tested the heat, checked that it was cooked rare as ordered, then... sent it out. What were you expecting? Get back to work.

“Y/n?” you heard him say as you were walking back to your station.

“Yes, Chef?”

“C'mere.”

You jogged over as he crooked his finger. When you stopped in front of him, he pointed after the waiter who had taken the meal.

“That,” he said, full of disbelief, “looked bloody delicious.”

“Thank you, Chef,” you replied, smiling brightly. He pulled a face at your expression.

“You look like the fucking Joker with that stupid grin plastered on your face, get back to your station and stop smiling for one fucking second.”

“Yes, Chef.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shrug


	3. Day Six, in which your palate is less than satisfactory

“Um...” You flicked your tongue around your teeth, trying to get any last molecules of food. “Mushroom?” The headphone was lifted off your right ear.

“Wrong, you fucking twat,” Ramsay whispered into your ear. “Raspberry,” he shouted. Everyone on your team groaned and you heard more than a few swears. Ramsay pulled the headphone off further and then released it, snapping it to your ear painfully.

“Ow,” you said under your breath. You couldn't hear or see, but you assumed he was telling everyone that that was three in a row out of four that you had gotten wrong. Hopefully your opponent was doing just as bad. The headphone was lifted again.

“Open up,” Ramsay said huskily. He didn't mean to sound that way, you were sure. But he did anyway. You opened your mouth for the fourth time and he spooned you a mouthful of another mystery food. He pushed the spoon in a little far, and you were pretty sure that was done on purpose. You gagged a bit and cleared your throat. He hadn't dropped the headphone yet. “Don't choke on it,” he whispered, then snapped the headphone back to your ear even harder than before.  
You were supposed to be concentrating on the taste, but all you could think of was the two of you alone, you still blindfolded, Ramsay straddling you on a chair, telling you to open up. He'd shove the spoon through your lips and hold your mouth closed until you swallowed. Then he'd slap you across the face when you were wrong and tell you what a stupid bitch you are for not knowing what the fuck a piece of corn tasted like. You felt a prod on your shoulder.

“Porn, cORN – corn,” you stammered. Awesome.

“No!” Ramsay said incredulously. “Fuck! It was a spoonful of sugar for Christ's sake! Get back in line, fuck off.” He ran his hands through his hair, muttering words like useless and pathetic. “Red team, because of this fucking doughnut you're behind four points. Never in my life seen such a shit palate.” Your team glared daggers at you and the blue team were snorting with laughter. Well, this sucks. At least no one seemed to hear you slip up. Then you saw Ramsay shake his head and squint. He scrunched his nose and asked,

“Did you say 'porn'?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :( are you gonna get eliminated? you fuckin' suck bro


	4. Day Six, that evening, in which your team gives you the stone-cold shoulder

“Anyone need a light?”

Your question was ignored. You'd think that in a group where every chef smoked like a pan on fire, you would have gotten someone to begrudgingly use your lighter. Instead, they pretended you didn't exist. You sighed and sat on a lone armchair.

“Can't believe we won,” you heard one of your teammates say. They didn't see that you were still within earshot. “I know the punishment will fuckin' suck, but I say we lose on purpose next time and get rid of y/n.” You heard murmurs of agreement and wilted in your seat. The palate test was incredibly embarrassing, but it's not like you lost on purpose. You just got so easily distracted. Somehow, the last member on your team managed to pull through, beating the blue team by one point.  
The prize your team won was a day at the beach with jet ski lessons. It would have been fantastic... if anyone had bothered to wake you up. You were determined to watch the episode as soon as it aired, because you could have sworn you set your alarm. Did they all plan to turn it off and get ready as quietly as possible in order to leave you behind? Wouldn't put it past them, considering your string of poor performances. The ringing phone nudged you out of your thoughts.

“Hello?” you asked miserably.

“Y/n,” Chef Ramsay said flatly. “Come to my office, I have something to discuss with you. Quickly.” He hung up the phone before you could respond. You nervously smoothed your hair and checked your breath (better safe than sorry...) before hurrying to his office. Wait, double back. Have a mint. … Okay, go.

“Come in,” Ramsay said to your knock at the door. You entered and stood at attention until he gave you permission to be seated. “I understand you didn't partake in the red team's beach trip.”

“Yes, Chef.” You didn't want to throw anyone under the bus without evidence, but it was hard not to accuse them. He continued staring at you with his elbows on the desk and his hands clasped in front of him, expecting you to say more. “I overslept.”

Ramsay leaned back in his chair, hands now clasped across his chest. He looked concerned. That's strange. Maybe he's wondering what kind of idiot wouldn't set an alarm.

“Did you ask anyone why they didn't wake you up?” Once again, he looked like he actually gave a shit. You felt like you may be blushing.

“No, Chef.” Ah, crap. You're gonna tell him anyway. “I have a feeling that they did it on purpose... so... I decided to act like I didn't care to go in the first place.” You shrugged pathetically.

“Do you know why they would do it on purpose?” He had leaned forward now.

“Well, I assume it's because I'm the worst one on the team,” you said through a tight smile. He smiled back. Little creepy looking, to tell the truth.

“Not quite.”

“...Excuse me?”

“You're the worst chef of this season.” He rolled his seat forward and was resting his chin on his clasped hands. He was almost whispering when he said, “We're only keeping you on for the added drama of everyone wishing you were gone.”

You swallowed. “Are... are there cameras in here... right now?” you squeaked.

“Yes.” He suddenly stood up and gripped your jaw across the desk. “The producers don't give a fuck. I'm Gordon fucking Ramsay, I can do whatever the fuck I want with them, and with you, isn't that right?” He still sounded so calm... he was speaking just above a whisper, the slight gravel to his voice making your heart beat even faster. “Isn't that right?” he repeated, tightening his hold.

“Yes, that's right, that's right, Chef,” you said with quickened breath.

“God, look at you. I can smell you from here,” he said, eyes dipping briefly to your crotch. “You're loving this, aren't you?”

You bit back a whine and nodded, face heating further. He shoved your face away with disgust.

“Filthy bitch. Go to your dorm. Fucking cry yourself to sleep for all I care.” He sat down and busied himself with the papers strewn across the desk.

“You misspoke, Chef,” you said, rubbing your jaw and smirking. “I'll cry FUCKING myself to sleep. Crying because it will feel amazing! Like, REALLY amazing!" Damn, clever a-f. Usually you think of comebacks like that a few hours too late. “And I'll be doing it to the thought of you.” Oh yeah, you said it. Hell yeah. You walked smugly backwards and ran into the door. Fuck, that hurt. You fumbled for the knob and slipped out, relishing the flabbergasted look on his stupid, sexy face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my longest yeah boy ever.mp4


End file.
